Patient Zero
by Dancewithknives
Summary: During the Chimera Outbreak in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, Doc comes to an impass on whether ending one life is worth saving all of them.
1. Five Minutes to Midnight

Patient Zero

 _Five minutes to Midnight_

There once was a town in New Mexico by the Name of Hot Springs. Formed in 1912, the town remained a sleepy desert city with nothing to note until almost forty years later when a popular radio program forever lost to time promised to visit the first city to name themselves after their show. Now going by the name of Truth or Consequences, the town remained rather uninteresting besides having a name that causes the reader to make a double take.

But that all changed during one hot night in August of 2017.

A meteor shot across the desert skyline lighting the night like the second coming of Christ, but what it brought was anything but divine. An old man, enjoying the warm night air in the driver's seat of his flatbed truck with a crane assembly, was sipping on a beer when he saw the foreign object coming for him, and as it touched down, he sped after it with dollar signs on his mind.

He wasn't seen again until 3 days later, when he stumbled into the Emergency Room of the local Veteran's Hospital, shivering uncontrollably, blisters and black organic spikes puncturing through his body, moaning for help before his eyes shot blood red and he broke into an uncontrollable rage.

That was over a week ago.

The dark desert town was alight with sporadic gunfire from commando teams running missions in the quarantine zone. The Chimera virus, a fever of unknown origin, looked to have even infected the very earth as spiked black and red growths penetrated through the asphalt of the streets, through cars, and even impaled buildings like freshly speared fish. But, for as dire as things seemed to be, the situation was finally looking up.

Like an Aztec priest cutting the beating heart from a defeated enemy. Three explosions erupted from within the workshop of the first infected resident of Truth or Consequences. Like the bird of prey that it was named after, a Boeing V-22 Osprey set its twin propeller turbine engines to hover and lowered a winch to the ground. Soon afterwards, the Osprey raised its winch and gained altitude, raising its prize from the scrap shop.

What it held in its netting looked to be (until proper investigation) a satellite of some kind, a human space vehicle which upon reentry had brought the alien plague to Earth. Whatever it was, hopefully it held the key curing the infection.

The Osprey rose in the air and was joined by an escort of MH-6 Little Birds, all armed with Miniguns and rocket pods as they made a direct course out of the quarantine zone and into a safe containment field.

While all of this was going on in the air, an armored car rolled up to the salvage yard and three men entered through the back door, closing it and banging on the driver's window for him to commence exfiltration.

Although they had different levels of protection on, each man was covered in a yellow hazardous material suit, over which they were tied up with armored plate carriers and assault webbing with ammunition, grenades, knives, and guns. The armored car began moving, and the built in Air Recycler activated, causing a yellow light to blink in the rear compartment as the air was recycled out and fresh and clean air replaced it. Eventually, the light turned green, signifying that the environment was sterile.

The man sitting furthest in the armored vehicle set his weapon – and assault rifle with an undermounted shotgun attachment- aside in the weapon rack and removed his mask, taking in a deep breath of the recycled air. Sébastien "Buck" Côté, a French-Canadian from the Mounted Police's antiterrorism unit leaned forward in a relaxed position and looked at his two companions and smiled, saying, "Now that the mission's over, how's about we go find a bar and grab some beers or maybe get a cocktail with the shrimps, no?"

In the middle of the compartment, a man in heavy armor over his hazard suit pulled up the visor on his riot shield. He was wearing bright blue silicone surgeon's gloves on his hands. Gustave "Doc" Kateb, was a member of the French Groupe d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. He was a doctor with Humanitarian beliefs so strong that he would pick up arms and fight on the front lines to save lives. He looked over at his Canadian counterpart and agreed to the premise of raiding the bar on the way to safety.

The final member of their team was sitting near the door to the armored vehicle. He was heavily armored like his French counterpart while at the same time also being heavily armed like the Canadian as well. Like the other two, he wore all of his armor and weapons over a yellow hazard suit, but he had no mask. Instead, what adorned his head was a heavy helmet made from the same composite as tanks. It covered his cranium completely with only a small slit at eye level to see and a heavy mouthpiece that could retract to the top. Alexsandr "Tachanka" Senaviev set his Saiga 12 semiautomatic shotgun down in the slot by his chair before sliding the pieces of his large DP-28 machinegun on the floor of the transport gently. With the extra weight off, the Russian leaned back in his chair and looked at the two Francophones and crossed his arms on his chest, saying, "and people say Russians have a drinking problem."

All three companions laughed. Shortly afterwards, their radios all began broadcasting. "Rainbow-1. This is Rainbow Six Actual, do you read me?" asked a male's voice. "Rainbow Six", the unit that these men belonged to, was an elite international counterterrorism unit. "Rainbow" meaning that the task force did not fall under the jurisdiction of one government alone, and "Six" in honor of the first six nations that agreed that a boundless team that could deal quickly and effectively in volatile scenarios was a necessary tool in the goal of making a world free of terror. Sure, they weren't specialized in dealing with hostile encounters with an alien pathogen, but then again who was?

Acting as their commanding officer for the duration of the incident, Jordan "Thermite" Trace, was a Texan with a refined taste for explosions. Although preferring to be there with him, he none the less performed his support role diligently. "Nobody else is going to say it at the moment, but good job out there today." The three appreciated the compliment, but knew it came with a catch. "It looks like you did some major damage to the 'Roaches'. From our drone recon it looks like they're all going berserk out there. Also, Doc, Doctor Macintosh has made some headway in cultivating a vaccine, I thought you'd like to know that."

"Bon." The Frenchman replied.

"but, we're not out of the woods yet. Roaches are starting to make a coordinated push to break quarantine, and we also have another development. This is going to be our best opportunity to jump on this. As long as you're up to it."

Buck frowned. Although he wasn't one to complain, he did feel that an explanation to their immediate redeployment was deserved. "Thermite, This is Buck. What about our other assets in the AO? I'd hate to make them feel left out."

"Lion and a team are extracting civilians while Finka, Ash, and Kap are running a torch and burn op at another nursery. You boys are the only unit not already tied up at the moment."

"Alright, I see. What the news?"

"Valkyrie and some analysts has been sifting through captured cam footage for most of the night. It looks like they've found something or someone walking the streets for the last few hours. No luck on an I.D. at this time, but it looks to be a humanoid in a jumpsuit, shorter than average height. Piecing together the path, it looks like it was heading towards a big house on the edge of town. Roaches were ignoring 'him' until recently. Now, drone recon looks like they're starting to gather their forces around that house. Mission is a snatch and grab, grab the POI and get the hell out of there. Just say the word if you're willing to volunteer."

It was unnecessary to ask. With the uncertain future that this outbreak held for the world, no man in his right mind would decide to just give up now. But, at the same time, it was customary to do so, and polite. The Buck and Doc looked at each other and shook their heads, but none the less the Canadian said, "oui."

Immediately afterwards, Doc said, "I am in, yes."

The two waited for their Russian counterpart to agree as well, but the fact that his answer was not immediate caused an alarm. The two turned to Tachanka and saw him sitting in the corner of the armored vehicle with the visor of his heavy metal mask up. In his hand was a very old pocket watch, a family heirloom. It held no ornate design or was made of pretty metal, but instead was a polished stainless steel with a very smooth face to it. Apparently, it was his great grandfather's watch, standard issue work equipment given to conductors of Russia's early rail network. It was a fine, hard piece of equipment shielding a delicate white face and two gentle hands from the rest of the world.

But they knew that he was not checking to see if it was his bedtime yet.

While his right held the device in his hand, the thumb on his left hand traced around the border of the empty lense, circling the treasure hidden within.

"Angela." He whispered. His two companions were silent. Like he was alone in the world, he looked up from his treasure and viewed the world outside of the sealed armored vehicle, looking at the red sky glowing with the from the strange alien biomass that corrupted the land, at the black stone-like tendrils sprouting from the earth, and the cloudy smoke caused by the destruction of the land drifting into the air.

He closed his watch and stowed it behind his armor, saying, "Da. What are we waiting for? Let us go!"

"Good." Agreed Thermite. "I'll have you rerouted to a care package for resupply and fill you in on the rest of the details when you get there." There was a pause, and then he added, "Oh, and I should probably mention something else. The Pentagon has supplied General McAlister with a 'Haymaker' if need be. Situation is under control at the moment, but not for long if the Roaches keep trying to break containment. Suffice to say, we're about 5 minutes to Midnight… but no pressure out there, okay?"

The three men groaned, and to sum up how they felt, Doc said, "Thermite and his bombs…"


	2. Three Minutes to Midnight

Patient Zero part 2

 _Three Minutes to Midnight_

In the medical world, the term "Index Case" refers to the first recorded instance of a patient involved in an epidemiological study. To the common folk, this simply refers to the first written instance of a condition or syndrome. To use an example, the case index is not the first time a person with an allergy to pollen sniffed a dandelion and sneezed, but instead the first time a doctor witnessed someone sniff said dandelion, sneeze and decided to investigate the incident closer.

Patient Zero, on the other hand, is the actual first individual infected with an ailment. Although the two may be used synonymously-and the Index Case may actually be the first infected- time and reflection may prove otherwise. Surprisingly, the term "Patient Zero" is actually a relatively new term in the medical world. Originally, it came about in the 1980's during the AIDS scare involving a homosexual flight attendant. Back then, it was actually codenamed "Patient: O" as an acronym for "Out of California".

Time would go on, and hindsight is always 20:20. The hypothesis of Patient: O would eventually be proven false, but the moniker of the title as well as the importance of finding the first person infected in the means of treatment is still very relevant.

Although it's value may not seem evident to the uninformed, finding Patient Zero is one of the fastest means to quelling an outbreak. Bacteria and Viruses are not omnipresent nor static, they move and change just as much as any other living organism. Finding the origin point is the first step in determining how the pathogen is spreading, finding who was the first infected and how it occurred allows researchers to determine its origin, where it came from, its makeup, how it has evolved, and more importantly, if there are any weaknesses in its growth that can be exploited to cure those affected by it.

For example, the "Swine Flu" epidemic of 2009 was eventually solved when medical officials discovered a young boy from a rural village in Mexico was determined to be Patient Zero.

Although Patient Zero of the Chimera Outbreak in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico was thought to be a small-town scrapyard owner, the truth of the matter was out of this world.

Literally.

Tonya Smirnov walked through the large two story house with her eyes slightly closed. Her recent reencounter with something as simple as a truck's headlights had begun her readjustment with light, so although the lights in the house were bright, they did not burn her as much as it could have.

Although she was wearing nothing at the moment, her front was covered by a folded yellow sundress that she held in her arms. She wasn't sure who the rightful owner was, but it looked to be in her size and she hoped that the owner did not particularly mind her borrowing it. It had taken one whiff of fresh air to realize how awful she smelled, having sat in her own filth for years, and at the first chance she got, her old jumpsuit was discarded in the trash outside.

Tonya retraced her steps through the house, although she was quite light on her feet, she felt as if there was an elephant pounding around the house whenever she took a step. Finally, she found her way back to the master bathroom and placed the yellow dress on the hook on the inside of the door. She approached the tub and turned the hot knob until it was on full bore. Within forty seconds, the warm water had steamed up the mirror and white tiles in the master bathroom, and with a nervous hand, Tonya reached in and felt the hot stream.

Even though it caused a mist in the enclosed room, the hot rain of water only felt lukewarm to her, but that didn't matter, because the feel of the smooth water slipping between her fingers was the most incredible thing that she had ever felt in her life.

She stepped in and closed the curtain behind her, and exhaled a feeling that could only be described as pure ecstasy at what she felt. Like an old scab that was itching and needed to be peeled off, the woman let the water beat against her body, washing away layers of sweat, dead skin, acne, and grime as she watched it all fall down the drain into the septic tank below.

Something as simple as a shower, a bath, flowing water, she had given up hope of ever feeling something as basic as that ever again. It almost brought her to tears.

She raked her fingers through her long and unruly hair, feeling as the water took to the exposed follicles and removed patches of it. Old hairs that had disconnected from her scalp but still remained tied up in the knot, split ends, and roots that were only holding on by a thread gave away and fell to the tub, unburdening her like an itch finally being scratched.

The simple pleasures of society were too easily taken for granted. She had given up all hope on ever feeling such a thing ever again.

It was sometime after hitting the launch key after she had strapped into the doomed station's escape pod and the last glimpse of Earth that the odds of her survival had finally set in. She hailed for assistance, reported the situation to command, and waited for rescue to arrive.

Time stretched on and on, she set the pod into low power mode to conserve energy. Eventually, radio transmissions went unanswered, and she was left alone out in the dark expanse. Tonya never really was a religious person, even before the Communist party's ideals were drilled into her at school, she never really gave the concept of god too much thought. But there and then, when she was drifting alone in her steel bubble, outside of the world of men, politics, ideology, or reason, she cried out to any god that would listen, begging, promising to be their vessel and forever devote her life to their servitude if only they could save her wayward soul.

Eventually, there was an answer, but it wasn't god. That was for sure.

Although she could have stayed in for longer, Tonya felt sufficiently clean and rejuvenated. She stepped out of the shower, wrapped her body up with a towel hanging on the rack beside the tub, and dried herself off. She made her way in front of the mirror and raised one of her ghostly white hands, wiping away the steam to see herself.

She knew what had become of her, but at the same time she had not truly gotten a clear or definite look at herself. Her skin was pale, like that of a cold corpse. Her features were thin and sunken, as if her body was deflated, and as she had felt in the shower, her hair was patchy and missing in some areas.

The most immediate thing that frightened her were the eyes. She had grown up with dull brown pupils all her life, and as she looked at her own reflection, she became hypnotized by the bright glowing blue that came from them. No wonder that man who had claimed the escape pod was so frightened when she awoke from the impact. She even recoiled at the power she now possessed.

She couldn't recalled the exact time she acknowledged that she had found life of some kind out there in space. Her first inclination that something was happening was when she felt a sudden jolt against the hull. Then, after some time, she noticed a growth expanding over the surface of the window.

It kept growing and growing, waiting until –she assumed- it had covered the entire pod, and then, it entered.

Her memory was unclear at this point. After being trapped in a place where time had no beginning or end, such an eventful occurrence seemed to happen in a flash. Somehow, it entered the pod, then it entered her suit, and then it entered her.

Tonya reached for a nearby brush at the sink and tried to do something about her hair. She tried to comb some over to help hide the bald areas, or properly tame her mane, but as she kept pulling, all she noticed were more patchy spots and the brush becoming full of red hair. She gave up on grooming herself and set the brush aside. She returned to her reflection and investigated it closer, looking over her face and bare shoulders. She reached up, feeling around her cheeks and neck, where small black ridges, growths of a rocky black substance, formed out of her skin.

With no real options left, Tonya broke the seal on her suit, pulled up the chain around her neck, broke the capsule and chomped down on her cyanide pill. Whether it understood what she had done or not, the thing pounced. It overpowered her and forced its way in. As a toxic burning taste filled her mouth, the infection forced itself into her mouth, taking the burn and absorbing the acid.

She tried to end her life, but the parasite kept her alive. She tried to scratch her throat out, but it made her skin harder. She tried to suffocate, but it forced her to breathe. With no other options readily available, she decided to stop rationing her supplies and simply starve herself to death. But then the parasite infected her organs, slowing and reducing the need for bodily functions like her liver, kidneys, and stomach.

For as terrifying as that may have appeared, the true horror was yet to come.

Tonya discarded the towel in the clothes hamper and slipped the dress over her head. She exited the bathroom and walked through the home. She retraced her steps through the home until she reached her true prize. In the family room of the home was what looked almost like a large black mirror. A table and sofa were placed around it, and the device itself took up a considerable portion of the wall, almost 60 inches across. It wasn't until closer inspection that Tonya realized that after decades of drifting in space, this razor-thin thing on the wall was a television.

After another short while, the parasite, whatever it was, it began to communicate with her. She may have been alone drifting in space for years, but she knew that she wasn't crazy. It spread throughout her body and it forced itself into her brain. It manifested itself like a sly suitor, promising her riches, love, and marriage if only she would open her legs to it. Much like the hollow promises of restless lover, she rejected it at each and every turn. It read her mind, it dug into her memories, whatever it thought it could use to exploit, it did. It rummaged through the socialist propaganda that she had spent her life being force-fed and regurgitated upon request and tried to use it as a means to convince her to cooperate in their combined survival. It promised her of a new era of man, of a time of equality, where no man looked at another with disgust or greed in their heart, where no one would want for anything anymore. Where all would be free and happy.

But, like her political officer from school, she ignored and rejected the advances.

So, for years they kept this game up, point and counterpoint, proposal and rejection, promise and refusal.

But then, completely out of the darkness of space at some indiscriminate moment in time, she heard something that wasn't just the voice in her head.

"-And the New Orleans Saints win Superbowl Forty Four!"

It was there, and then it was gone. She increased the strength of the radio, and nothing else happened. She even had to ask the intruder in her head if it had heard it, and it replied that it had. There was silence again afterwards, her alien suitor was quiet for a while, and she listened to see what else was there. Although it would remain quiet for quite a while, that was the taste of what was to come, the first sign of how noisy it would soon be up in space.

Although she didn't know it at the time, the spacestation that she was serving on had recently been outfitted with state of the art communication devices. Instead of the old analog radio frequencies, these secret devices were broadcasting in digital format, and after drifting out in space for nearly 20 years, digital communication became so common that everyday television was now using it.

As time went on, more and more rogue transmissions from earth were picked up on her escape pod's radio. She listened, and like letters from home, waited in her tiny bubble and learned of how the world had changed over the years.

Tonya sat down at the couch and reached forward towards the coffee table. She reached for the remote, but was surprised to find that there were more than one resting on the table. She grabbed them all and began to experiment with them.

Eventually, she gave in, she stopped the infection and its promises and gave it an ultimatum. She would wait as long as it took to return to earth, and in exchange all she wanted was to see the world one last time, to be free of it all if only for a day.

It was strange, having listened to all sorts of programs for years and now actually watching one for the first time was odd. It must have been like how audiences felt when silent films finally received audio. She took the remote that was responsible for the channel, and then changed it, watching as a reality TV program changed to historical film from the first World War, and then to live nature footage from the Amazon Rainforest, and then highly stylized hand drawn cartoons, and then to international news coverage.

But, as she watched, the volume went silent. An alarm broadcasted across the TV, and instructions followed directing viewers to seek shelter and avoid contact with hostile individuals.

A frown sagged across her face, and then she reluctantly looked outside the window at the town beyond and the destruction she had caused. She stood and walked towards the front door, stepping out on the porch and watched the chaos that ensued to the city far away. She had sold out humanity for her own sake, ensured genocide for freedom, chose the tragedy of one over the deaths of all. There surely was a special place in Hell for people like her.

She closed her eyes and whispered, "Just one day… please…"


	3. One Minute to Midnight

Patent Zero Part 3

 _10 seconds to Midnight…_

No one was really sure how the word "Roach" came to be in regards to describing the infected. From his understanding of English, Doc knew that Roach was a surname, a slur for Turkish people, a type of fish, as well as a nickname for Marijuana, but he knew that when it came to the infected it was obviously made in comparison to the generic Cockroach.

The Frenchman looked through his periscope at a group of the infected humans, his scoped and suppressed MP5N was hanging off his shoulder by a single point sling. He and his two comrades were taking cover around the hood of a truck stationed at a mobile home on the far end of a large trailer park. The settlement had been cleared, but just for good measure three claymore mines were placed a few paces behind them to protect their back while they scouted the next area.

Before them was a stretch of open ground, a road from the trailer park which lead across open desert for 100 meters before forking off with a road which lead into town and another that lead towards a large two story house. Said house, which intel claimed was the owner of the trailer park, was a large plantation style home, a large wrought iron fence surrounded the property. A substantial gate and large drop box met the road where it looked like the tenets of the trailer park would drop off their rent or leave messages for the landlord. From the gate, a driveway wound up to the house and circled a small garden in the front yard while a large porch led up to the front door.

The medic was supposed to be surveying the surrounding area, but he couldn't help himself but watch a group of three infected individuals wandering aimlessly across the road. Although they didn't know everything about the infection, one thing that they did know was that it did not turn them into insects. On the contrary, it looked to be a fever of sorts, as the infected walked around wearing only undershirts and ripped jeans. Until further study, it looked like the increase in the host's body temperature caused their sweat glands-which had been mutated by this point- to go into overdrive and secrete a substance which would make their skin harder, and eventually make way for the black calcium growths form on their bodies.

They didn't scamper around like roaches, if anything, the infected seemed to wander aimlessly until provoked, in which they would undergo and awakening and commit to a blind rage. If anything, it seemed that the most appropriate comparison between the infected and a cockroach was that they both seemed to actively avoid sunlight. Roaches knew that the light meant that their habitat, normally dark dank areas full of decaying matter, had been compromised, while those infected by the Chimera Virus most likely fled from the sunlight due to the already hot New Mexico climate becoming too warm for them during the day.

"I got something." Buck said, "First floor, fourth window on the left. Someone was just walking past the window."

His team members followed his instruction, but when Doc did, all he saw was a brief flash of someone walking away.

"Are you sure it wasn't a roach?" Tachanka asked.

"Can't be sure, but judging from the intel, its probably our man."

Doc looked away, pulling back his spy glass to the fence around the house. "It may be, but what are we going to do about that?"

Around the fence of the house the infected had made a perimeter out of their own bodies. They were marching together in a long circle around the property line, almost as if they were making a wall out of their mutated biomass. The way they were marching in a herd of sorts reminded Doc of some old Zombie movies he had watched once in his childhood.

The Radio came alive, "Rainbow 1, this is Rainbow Actual. Status?" Although it was easily understood, there was a low drumming in the background when the call went out.

Tachanka answered the radio, "Target building in sight. Surveying the area to breach."

"That's good to hear." Thermite said, "Hate to break it to you, but the Roaches are pissed out there. We're getting attacks all across the quarantine perimeter. No pressure, but we're about Ten seconds to Midnight here. I'm trying to keep the Colonel's hand off the key to the haymaker, but you gotta move out there."

"Rodger that. Over and out." Buck pulled his binoculars and put his hand on the chin of his visor. He growled and looked around at the nearby area in frustration. Eventually, he stopped, looked down at the truck that he was hiding behind, and then off into the distance once more. He snapped his fingers in his gloves, a sound which only sounded like rubber rubbing against itself, and then grinned, saying in his French-Canadian English, "I have an Ideas."

Without further explanation, he instructed Tachanka to set up his turret in the back of the truck and get ready to move when he gave the signal. Upon request, Doc followed him as they stealthily stalked away from their protected position. After a few moments of jogging and sweeping his head in every direction except for where he was going, Buck gave the sign to stop.

Behind a white mobile home, Doc poked his head out and saw a long silvery tanker trailer parked in the middle of the street. It had a sleek silvery design as well as a green decal on the side of the long tubular tank that read "Oversee: see the world one stop at a time"

Buck looked back at him and said, "The way I see this, we use that over there as a battering ram, and when the way is clear, we jump into the truck and drive on through the hole. Oui?"

Doc nodded his head in agreement. Some of the infected- "Brutes" they had been dubbed- could take a beating when it came to gunfire, but surely nothing would be left standing when that much mass was being used. He only had one question about the plan, though. "Do you know how to use one of…"He thought of the word, but couldn't, " _those?_ "

"I used to drive the semis back in school." He replied. He then continued with, "cover my back while I make my way over there."

Doc readied his silenced MP5. He extended the stock all the way back and looked through the magnified scope on the top rail. Using his reticle, he traced the outline of the cargo carrier up until he reached the cab of the Tractor-Trailer. The door was open, garment bags were on the street as well as one that must have been ripped open and left its contents scattered in the doorway. Three infected lurked around the hood of the 18 wheeler and stumbled around in circles.

He wasn't an investigator, he had no objective proof of the story behind the scene before him, but if he had to guess he would have assumed that the owner of said truck must have rushed when news of the outbreak was spreading, cargo be damned. His home, which may have been nearby must have been under siege by the initial swarm of Roaches. In their attempts to flee, whoever was here must have tried to grab whatever necessities they could before escaping with the truck, but it's presence here meant that the tale did not end well.

Doc lined his shot up, aiming at the forehead of a crouching infected on the ground as it scrapped its fingers against the asphalt and dug into the ground. He began squeezing the trigger, bringing it closer and closer to the the back, adding more weight to the counter balance of the trigger's pull. All that remained was the break, the final effort that released the firing pin and would allow the first round to fly. It would be light, distinct, but crisp. A deliberate effort of Doc's index finger and then an equally smooth reset of the firing mechanism.

It was not the first time he had performed the exercise tonight, and there was no way that it would be the last. These infected were nothing in the grand scheme of the operation, not even notches on a belt or tally lines of chalk, but it didn't make it feel right.

Doc felt a pat on his shoulder. He pulled himself away from the scope of his weapon and looked at Buck on his side. In a certain unspoken understanding, Buck said, "don't worry. I got these ones, _mon Amie._ "

The doctor breathed a sigh of relief. He readied his weapon once more and waited as Buck disappeared behind a mobile home, sifting through white picket fences and yard decorations as he lurked closer to the tanker. Hunched over in a crouch, Buck snuck across the exposed side of the tanker. Doc watched as he, curled into a near ball with his rifle hanging across his chest, slowly approached the group.

Knife in his left hand and a browning Hi Power with a suppressor in the other, Buck approached the group by sneaking behind the standing Roach while the other two focused on digging into the road. With only a step and a half to go, the Canadian burst to his feet and made an offensive stab, the serrated blade penetrating straight into the back of the head of the Roach and severing his brainstem, killing it instantly.

The commotion caught the attention of the other two, but before they could stand two suppressed shots rang out like muffled coughs, dropping the two face first into the hole they had been trying to dig.

It was quick, emotionless and almost mechanical in a way. But it got the job done.

Area clear, buck reloaded and holstered his pistol and knife. He waved Doc over as he popped open the cab to ensure it was empty. Doc approached, and as he neared he noticed the placards on the side of the tanker by the wheel wells. It was a read diamond with the white Letter "3" on it. He wasn't sure what it was, but he assumed that it must have been chemical in nature. When he arrived at the cab, Buck was half way inside fiddling around with the controls of the driver's seat. When he noticed Doc standing at his side he asked, "Gustave, do you still have that C4 from the resupply?"

Doc confirmed, showing a block of wrapped plastic explosives and detonator.

"Alright, leave that here and go back to Tachanka. When he's ready, drive the truck over here."

The doctor complied, leaving the inert explosives on the step leading up to the big rig. He made his way back to where the three had scouted the large house and found his Russian cohort standing in the bed of the truck, his beloved DP-28 Machine gun was now mounted to the top of the cab. Doc gave him a brief summary of what was going on, and got into the driver's seat of the truck.

Keys in the ignition, Doc turned the vehicle on and slowly drove through the yards back to where the big tractor and tanker were. As they arrived, Buck was at the back of the tanker, unscrewing the valve until the liquid contents began spilling out onto the road.

Running now, Buck sprinted back to the truck cab and climbed into the driver's seat. Without even closing the door, he turned over the engine, and after a few seconds of warming up, the diesel engine roared to life.

Doc watched curiously as his Canadian counterpart enacted his own plan. Although always serious when it came to their job, Sébastien was known to make up tall tales every now and then, and although the thought hadn't occurred to him before, it looked like he actually did know how to operate a large truck like that.

But then the truck's air horn when off, a sound that was almost as loud as gunfire, and undoubtedly alerted the Roaches guarding the large house to their presence. Either this was a part of Buck's plan, or he had just hit the wrong button on the dashboard.

The package then began rolling, and when it was in gear, Buck jumped out of the cab and sprinted towards the truck. He opened up the passenger door and jumped in. Outside in the bed, Tachanka slapped the hood and said, "I hope you thought this one through, my friend."

The three watched as the truck began to roll down hill, slowly gaining momentum as it approached the gate to the complex, barreling towards the mass of infected that gathered at the line.

"We'll see. You better hold on out there!" he replied. He then patted the driving Doc on the arm, saying, "Hang back and let it get far away from us as you can."

Doc agreed and stopped the truck, but as he watched the big rig roll down the road leaving a line of liquid behind it, he noticed that there was a different colored spot on the back of the silvery metal tanker, and that it had a blinking red light to it.

The French doctor thought on it for a moment, and eventually had to ask, "Buck, there was a red card on the side of that vehicle with a "3" on it. What does that mean, exactly?"

As if he was giving off the specifics of his weaponry, Buck gave an automatic and impersonal answer to the question. "Hazardous materials: 3; Flammable Liquid. Petrol."

Doc's hands tightened around the steering wheel as he began to connect the dots on what Buck's grand plan actually was. He came to his conclusion, and had to turn to his Canadian counterpart challenged him, " _no…_ ".

The Canadian raised his left hand, showing the armed frequency detonator device paired with Doc's brick of C4 from earlier. Without answering, he said, "This is going to be loud…"


	4. One Second to Midnight

Patient Zero

 _1 Second to Midnight…_

After listening to his game show for years, Tonya couldn't describe why, but she always imagined Alex Trebek having a beard. Perhaps it was his voice, or his manner of speaking, but she always imagined that the trivia questions and answers that he spoke were coming from behind a black beard. Every time the perspective panned over to the game show host, Tonya found herself mesmerized by his shiny white chin. The Cosmonaut sat patiently on the couch and waited for the answer to the 600 dollar question as to what Tactical Videogame First Person Shooter Series debuted in 1998 on Microsoft Windows when an explosion rocked the entire house.

The shockwave, having interrupted the signal and nearly knocked her out of her seat, caused Tonya to scramble to her feet to investigate. She approached the-now cracked- windows to the front of the house, and before her was an inferno that had destroyed most of the front yard leading to the estate.

"What the hell was that?" she asked herself, backing away from the window.

To answer her, she felt the infection appear behind her, manifesting itself like The Pope's praetorian guards.

"Stay back." It ordered, "I will protect you, like I always have."

It was gone, and Tonya was left to ponder its words as she approached the window once more and witnessed the following events.

* * *

The truck was dead on arrival, it did its duty, but its loss was unfortunate. Buck was right, the explosion of the tanker was indeed loud, and its effect was similar to that of a precision air strike, and it did more than enough to break a hole through the Roaches' perimeter. Those who were remotely close to the breach were simply no more, completely disintegrated by thousands of gallons of gasoline igniting at once. The survivors scattered scattered in a massive panic as their blood-rage began after being disturbed, but also fleeing as the burning gasoline brought their already critically high internal body temperature to unsafe limits.

Like a landing craft, the truck acted as Chiron's barge as the three soldiers passed over the sea of fire and into the land of the dead, but the flames obscured the far side of the fire, and no matter how sharp his reflexes were, Doc could not help but impale the hood of the truck into the mangled metal remains of the semi tractor.

Buck bailed out from the passenger side door immediately. The automatic fire from Tachanka's turret filled the Truck with the booming report of his machine gun. Doc remained in the driver's seat, slamming the gears and kicking down on the pedals trying to get the truck moving once more, but gave up when Buck began firing as well.

As a special forces operator, Doc had been trained in a rather unusual form of combat. In his profession, he knew that he would have the advantage when it came to manpower and resources. Terrorists, by the nature of their name, fought through fear, being nimble and flexible units able to cause panic and terror to anyone at any time. But their dexterity came at the cost of their strength. When someone occupies a bank or takes hostages at a hospital, the means to do so comes at the cost that they can only share their plan and operate with only a handful of individuals and their weaponry was limited.

More often than not, Doc's real objective was to minimize the damage that they can cause rather than subdue them outright. In that regard, time was as much of an enemy as a person with a balaclava and an AK-47 holding a nun hostage was.

But none of that training could prepare him for the gigantic dark mob that was charging him from across the yard. It was like a swarm of flies, or a gathering of spores. The gigantic mob walked as one unit, using their massive numbers as a moving shield allowing the fodder in front to block the incoming bullets for their allies in back like a Greek phalanx. As the main unit moved forward, individual Roaches, either breaking off from the main group or splintered away because of the explosion, sprinted towards the three soldiers to take them out while the mob distracted them.

Doc raised his MP5. Although his animalistic instincts were telling him to flee, he planted his feet in an aggressive stance and shouldered the stock. The sight of the oncoming mob made him want to fire indiscriminately into it, his training in counterterrorism forced him to do otherwise. Locking onto the nearest oncoming sprinter, he peered down his sight and aimed for the Fatal T.

It was a thin area just below the eyes and connecting straight down the throat. The skull, naturally tough to protect the most vital organ in the body, was well protected around the forehead, but just below that, around the concaves of the face and throat was much less so. A clean shot to this imaginary area with even a moderately powerful cartridge was more than assured to separate the brainstem and cause immediate death.

Target marked, Doc squeezed the trigger and fired a three round burst. The first round hit clean in the chest, causing a strong reaction to the impact, and the third round missed, just flying over the left ear, but the second landed right in the junction of the T. With it, the target slid to a stop in the dirt.

Doc disengaged, spotted another target, and then repeated the action again and again.

Little by little, the world began to fall apart. The sky was gone, earth was nothing, and time jumped like an ocean in a storm. Instinct and reflexes took over as the engagement continued. Buck's rifle, Tachanka's turret, and Doc's suppressed MP5 mixed together with the roar of the approaching horde. Time would stop as the Frenchman singled out the nearest threat and then burst to lightening speeds as he aimed and fired, only to pause once more as he searched for the next target.

In the blender of commands, gunfire, flashes, and call outs, another voice began screaming into Doc's ear. But it was choppy and distorted as he shifted from hyper-focused to wide spectrum sensory.

"One Second… Midnight… Roaches… Overrun. Do something. Haymaker is… its way. Dropping… Fucking NUKE!"

The firing from Tachanka's turret stopped. Doc looked to see him rip the circular magazine off the top of the gun and slam down a second, but in that moment, the main mob took the halt in gunfire to blitz and rush the three operators. As the bodies dispersed, Doc saw what the mob was protecting. Brutes, Roaches that had mutated so much from the infection that they looked to be more alien than human at this point, charged from the protected backline of the mob, bowling over anything in their path.

Without discussion, the three men focused fire on the nearest brute, but most of their bullets simply bounced off of its reinforced exoskeleton. The behemoth charged and lifted both of its arms over its head, slamming them down onto the hood of the truck, sending the engine compartment into the dirt and bouncing the Russian standing in the bed.

The beast howled and postured at the defeated pickup, and like an alpha-male battling to defend his dominance, Tachanka responded. Shouting, "Going mobile!" and showing an equally impressive feat of strength, Tachanka ripped the turret from its stand and clambered over the driver cab. One hand on the grip and another supporting the weapon, he brought the muzzle right into the monster's face and squeezed the trigger. Even for as tough as a brute was, nothing could stop a volley of 7.62x54mmR rounds at this range.

The brute, headless, fell backwards flat to the ground, kicking up dust and creating a hearty thud. One brute down, but that left four more.

Tachanka discarded his turret and three operators ran, abandoning their quasi fortified position for open ground as the horde approached.

Lungs burning, body being crushed underneath his armored plates, Doc turned around and raised his MP5 at the first charging brute. He aimed, pulled the trigger, but only one shot went out. He flipped the gun sideways and saw the bolt only halfway into position, round jammed in the action.

"Merde!"

Releasing it from his hands, it fell until its sling became taught, hanging off his shoulder. He reached to his drop leg holster and pulled up his sidearm. He tapped the trigger like his life depended on it, each time releasing a 147 grain hollowpoint round into the brute, but it simply shrugged off each round as the lead hit the armor and flattened out.

The brute wound back its arm and backhanded him, launching him free from the ground, landing in the dirt twelve feet away.

Ears ringing, chest throbbing, and head spinning. Doc brought up his hands to find his sidearm gone. He reached down to his MP5, and saw the body twisted, barrel bent in three places, and magazine flayed open, spring sending the remaining rounds into the dirt.

In a strange form of unfortunate luck, it looked like the gun had taken most of the blow for him. It had saved him from what could have been his demise, but it wouldn't help him with the brute as it reared itself back up and charged once more.

" _My Sidearm_!" he thought. " _Where'd it go?_ " He turned his head, and there it was lying in the grass a few paces away. No other options left, Doc put his arms out in front of him and began to crawl, dragging his weight and busted Kevlar plates along with in the dirt. A distance of merely 4 steps felt like a mile flat on the dirt as he crawled, but thinking and allowing pessimism to poison the mind was not a smart thing to do in a life or death situation. All he did was focus on putting one arm in front of the other, and pull with all of the strength that he had.

Finally, his hand slammed down on the pistol grip of the FNP-9, and at the same time, the foot of the brute landed square on his back, forcing him into the dirt. He shrieked in pain as the weight of the massive roach was brought down upon him. Magazine empty and slide locked back, Doc cursed all of the effort that he had gone through to get to his empty gun.

The weight was lifted for a moment. Doc breathed in what he thought would be his last breath on this earth, and in his free hand he felt the cold rigid shape of a 9mm round. The brute's foot came back down and he cried out in pain at the weight on his back.

Now clenching the round in his fist. He brought the bullet over to the locked out chamber of his pistol and locked it in. The brute raised its foot again, preparing for another hearty stomp, but as soon as it was free, Doc rolled over his aching sides, escaping as the armored trunk of the Brute's leg planted firmly into the ground.

He raised his head, and what he saw next confused him.

From beyond his dust and blood stained visor, he saw the house at the top of the hill, and more importantly, the front door wide open. Leading down from the porch, he saw a woman, frail and pale like a corpse, wearing a dress that would have fallen off if not for the straps at her shoulders. It was a confusing sight for sure, but it only took one look at her eyes- those electric blue glowing pupils- to understand what she was.

She stopped in the middle of the lawn, and with it, the horde of roaches seemed to quell as well. She closed her eyes, opened her hands up and slowly began to spread her arms apart. She opened her eyes once more, looked straight into Doc's eyes and in a calm clear voice, said, "Do it."

The horde erupted. The roaches went wild, the night became alive.


	5. 12:01

Patient Zero part 5

12:01

Some habits die hard. Beaten, battered, bruised, and exhausted, Doc still found himself crouched onto the ground with a tape recorder in his hands as he did the thing that he had done for the longest; play doctor.

"Subject appears to be a woman, possibly late 40's possibly… Unknown at this time. Infection levels seem…" he thought of the correct words to use at the moment and settled on, 'Unusual'. "Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head. Time of death is approximately…" he checked his watch, "12:01."

Behind him, Buck and Tachanka sat in the dirt, the Canadian taking the moment to breathe with his rifle beside him while the Russian inspected the condition of his battered Machine gun. Around them in every direction were the roaches that had been trying so very desperately to kill those mere minutes before. but now were seizing in the dirt until they finally lay still, dead.

Truth or Consequences, New Mexico was quiet little desert town once again. Unlike the times before, the only sounds that they heard were coming from each other, or the UH-60 Blackhawks in the distance as they approached their position.

Before him, lying in his only bodybag, was their mysterious woman; Patient Zero. If it was any consolation, she looked to be at peace now… as much peace as a bullet wound to the head could be.

The helicopters landed, one team in full hazmat gear as they secured the area and investigated the house, the other was there for the pickup and only carried one passenger.

From the open side, Olivier "Lion" Flament hopped to the ground. A chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear threat specialist, the man was wearing his normal bright yellow Hazardous Environment suit alongside his rifle and the operator rig for his mobile recon drone. Doc groaned to himself when saw the man make a beeline for him.

Tachanka and Buck collected their equipment and got to their feet. Doc closed his eyes and took a deep breath, placing his hand over the dead woman's face and slowly closing her eyes.

Doc heard Lion as he approached. A holier-than-thou-art delinquent turned Born-Again Christian, the two had their squabbles in the past even before the reformation of the Rainbow Initiative, on top of him just being a pompous ass. So to say that he was not one of the people Doc wanted to see at a time like this would be a fair assessment.

"Gustave," he said softly, one Frenchman to another in their native tongue, off the radio and free of the only other person here that could understand them. "are you all right?"

Of his many flaws, one thing that Lion did not lack was empathy.

"Yes, Oliver. I am fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

One is not simply "fine" after ending a life. No matter how long he does this, Doc doubted that it will ever get easier. Every life is a story, a book, a tale to tell from one person to another. Everyone, from his friends, his comrades, civilians, terrorists, the roaches, Patient Zero, who or whatever she was, they all had stories to tell. As he grabbed the zipper on the bodybag, and pulled it up over her head, Gustave knew that hers was a book that would be forever closed and better left off not knowing.


End file.
